


spare key

by delia-pavorum (delia_pavorum)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bedsharing, Drunk Rey, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feral Rey, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I'm in my post TROS feels, Intruder Alert, It's a "socialized ferality" ok, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-TROS Timeline-ish, Sharing a Bed, Should have stuck with it tbh, Soft Ben, The Softest Ben, seriously, was the working title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delia_pavorum/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: He didn't know why she drank every week. Didn't know if it was with friends or alone. If it was after work or after midnight. Didn't know why it would inevitably lead her to his home, his bed.All he knew was that, when she was there, she was his.And he would protect her at all costs, from whatever demons chased her into his arms.Ben Solo wakes up about once a week to find his neighbour, Rey Johnson, inexplicably in bed with him. Oddly, he doesn’t seem to mind.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 91
Kudos: 871
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	spare key

**Author's Note:**

> This story was borne from a [tweet](https://twitter.com/ceraldi_carleen/status/1231727331263139840) that became a [prompt](https://twitter.com/delia_pavorum/status/1231746313894715392?s=20) that turned into a [tweetfic](https://twitter.com/delia_pavorum/status/1233399400942182401?s=20) that grew into 118 tweets (4400 words) and then was written into a story with an added smut scene (and another 4185 words) and… here we are.
> 
> Thank you to [Reylo Prompts](https://twitter.com/reylo_prompts) for the inspo and [this lady](https://twitter.com/ceraldi_carleen) for the original tweet. Thank you to [slipgoingunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder) for her encouragement, support, help with titles (a part of this fic will always be "Intruder Alert"), and that lovely moodboard. To [HouseOfFinches](https://twitter.com/HouseOfFinches) and [superlark](https://twitter.com/superlark) for their lovely artwork inspired by the story, which you can find [here](https://twitter.com/HouseOfFinches/status/1234343127198113793?s=20) and [here](https://twitter.com/superlark/status/1233936051598745602?s=20). And the hugest most humble THANK YOU to all the incredible readers on Twitter who followed the story along every step of the way and bolstered me with their kind words and praise. This story would not exist without you!

* * *

* * *

At first, Ben Solo thought he was dreaming.

This was the way most of his dreams started, after all. A warm, soft body writhing underneath him. A silken spill of hair between his fingers and on his pillow. Hot, sweet breath wafting against the underside of his jaw in an erotic caress. 

Granted, this particular body was not quite as lush as the ones he had usually dreamt of throughout the course of his life. And her soft moans sounded a bit more like a snuffling piglet than he'd expected. Her breath also wasn't that minty, or sweet; instead, reminiscent of the last dregs of an old pint. 

As he slowly tried to come to his senses, he felt her burrow herself deeper into his side – beside him, he realized, not underneath, but slotted in so tight he _must_ have been crushing her – and smack her lips together. 

Loudly. 

The last vestiges of sleep were relinquished as he understood that this was no dream at all. 

It was Rey.

And she was back. 

Rey Johnson, Apartment 2C, had been a decent enough neighbour for the time they’d known each other. Sure, her ideals were a little too socialist and her friends a little too rowdy and self-serving, but she was kind and helpful and watered his plants while he was away, which was truly the only requirement he had of those within geographic proximity. 

Of course, it helped that she was devastatingly pretty – tall, lean, and lithe. She also had this air of controlled wildness to her, an unselfconscious lack of reserve that he found remarkably intriguing.

In her everyday demeanour, she came across as friendly, outgoing, resourceful, caring. But it was the glimpses he caught in those rare moments when she didn’t know anyone was looking, where she exhibited a type of behaviour that he could only describe as a sort of— _socialized ferality._

It was in the way she tore into her letters with her teeth while standing at the mailboxes. The way he once saw her lick her entire forearm from elbow to wrist to take care of a streak of chocolate ice cream that had dripped from her cone. Or how she could balance two sandwiches, a coffee, a water bottle, and no less than three pastries, using all her available appendages and limbs. 

It was in the way she looked at him sometimes, eyes hot, one straight, perfect white tooth snagged on a full lower lip. 

And, most significantly, the way she’d been breaking into his apartment at nights, at least once a week for the last six weeks, and getting into his bed with him. Plastering herself against his body, fully clothed and snoring in his ear, an aura of pure vodka emanating from her overheated form.

As far as he could tell, it had all begun with the key. 

A few months back, Ben had made plans to be away for a bit – a week, tops – to accomplish a task that had needed attention for awhile now: his dad's old cottage. 

It required a good clear-out and it was something he'd wanted it done properly. A messy task, sure, and emotional, but one Ben felt like he'd owed his old man, especially considering all he'd done for him, in the end. 

While he was gone, he would need someone to collect the mail, water the plants – general upkeep to ensure the place still looked lived in. 

_His_ place. 

It wasn't much, he knew. Different than what he was used to, certainly. But a fresh start had meant exactly that. No more doormen and penthouses. No more car service or 24-hour gym. No more First Order benefits or subsidies. 

No more Kylo Ren. 

There were perks, though. Anonymity. Freedom. 

A cute neighbour willing to help out when needed. 

So he'd given her his spare key and taken his trip. Said goodbye to his dad in all the ways he'd known how and made peace in a way he hadn't been able to while he was still around. And when he'd come home, weary but content, and his plants had been thriving and his mail had been sitting in a neat pile on his counter organized by category and his most recent issue of the New Yorker had only been mildly tampered with— 

(A single, sticky fingerprint, more than likely the raspberry residue of a certain neighbour's favourite morning pastry.)— 

He'd just been so pleased to have someone so trustworthy around and, perhaps subconsciously, to sense the change in atmosphere of this space that hadn't quite felt like a home, not yet, but maybe was starting to just a bit—

That he hadn't even thought of asking for his key back. 

The first "break-in" happened about three weeks later. 

Ben hadn’t even been sleeping. Lying in bed, novel in hand, he’d been re-reading the same page over and over again when he heard the telltale click of a key turning in his lock. Immediately all his senses were on alert. His body tensed, muscles going so taut they ached. 

He put his book down carefully, keeping a wary eye on the bedroom door. 

The intruder, whoever it was, wasn’t even attempting to be quiet. That gave him pause. 

In fact – he listened carefully, ears straining. They appeared to be...talking to themselves? Ben could hear low mumbles interspersed with the occasional sharp outburst, as the world’s noisiest and clumsiest robber fumbled through the dark entryway and hallway.

Finally, a figure stumbled in the doorway, illuminated by the pale light of his bedside lamp and his breath caught. 

It took only a second for him to register the familiarity of that figure and another half second for him to recognize her entirely. 

“Rey?”

In response, she let out an unintelligible grunt and leaned forward until the momentum took her feet into the room. Two steps, three, reminiscent of the reanimated trudge of a Frankensteinian creation, and next thing he knew she had joined him in the bed, knees first, followed swiftly by face. 

Then, the snores began. 

Ben was immobile. Even if he had wanted to move, to prod her, to say something, he was physically incapable of doing so for an indeterminate amount of time, because 

it was Rey 

and she was 

in his bed. 

Never in his wildest fantasies – well, that wasn’t quite true, was it, particularly lately – but still, _statistically_ , he had assumed the chances of his neighbour ending up in bed with him were quite slim.

The snoring, alcohol-infused figure to his right begged to differ, however. 

“Rey.” He found his voice again, finally. “Rey.”

“Mmf?” A muffled groan emerged. 

“Rey, you—“ What, of his myriad of options, was he going to say? “Rey, you’re drunk.”

 _Nice one._ The self-deprecation came swiftly and mercilessly. 

“How’d’you know?” came the semi-coherent retort. 

“Because,” he whispered – _why was he whispering?_ – “Because you live next door.” _Two for two, Solo._

“Mmm,” she assented, burrowing deeper into the covets. “S’nice.” The snoring commenced anew within seconds. 

Torn, Ben looked down at her, cocooned into his duvet, a small puddle of drool already forming near her mouth. 

He made his decision in a heartbeat. 

Heaving a sigh, he slid out from under the covers and circled the bed. Grasping a slim ankle in one hand, he removed her shoe with the other. Then, he did the same with the other foot. Pulling the duvet cover out from underneath her took a bit more effort, as the dead weight of her inebriated form may as well have been an impenetrable boulder. Eventually, he managed to get her under the covers, before grabbing his own pillow and making his way to the couch. 

He lay there silently, one hand tucked under his head, watching as the grey shadows played at the ceiling until they transformed into the orange shimmer of dawn. 

When she'd woken up the next morning, she had been the picture of embarrassed, hungover chagrin – raspy-voiced, hair wild, face imprinted with pillow marks.

He'd listened to her apologies with bemused grace, understanding why she was sorry, unable to convey why she shouldn't be. She’d offered to return his key and he’d blinked, recalling that, of course, she had his key. He had refused – who knew when he’d need her again? – and she’d left with shoes in hand and the promise that this particular mishap would never repeat itself. 

Except that it did. 

The following week, when the key turned in the lock and Rey stumbled into the apartment, Ben was sound asleep. He didn't hear her kick off her shoes in the entryway. 

Didn't hear her drop her bag on the floor. 

Didn't hear her coat go flying across his hallway.

Didn't even feel her as she slowly crawled up the length of his bed, before collapsing next to him. It was only when her head bumped the underside of his chin, clacking his teeth together, that he was jolted into semi-consciousness. The awareness of her long, lean body huddled deeply into his, burrowed tightly against his chest, rendered him fully awake. As before, he was immobile. Frozen in place by surprise and something more—a reluctance, perhaps, to disrupt whatever magical spell had been cast in his life that resulted in a beautiful woman in his bed every seven or eight days. 

Still, he could recognize it was strange enough – borderline inappropriate enough – to require some sort of action on his part, if not on hers. He gently jostled her. She moaned and curled deeper into him, the easily identifiable scent of beer wafting mildly towards him. His inconvenient body mistook her moan and proximity for something more and he discreetly shifted away from her, jostling her with more urgency. 

“Mm—wha?” Her head lifted and she blinked drowsily. 

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, as though he were the intruder in _her_ bed. 

“Uh, you, uh—“ He cleared his throat again. “You’re back.” 

She blinked once more, peering down at him disorientedly. 

Suddenly her eyes widened. “Shit!” 

She scrambled away from him and sat up, dropping her head into her hands. “Oh, shit. Crap. Bollocks. I’m so sorry.” 

She looked at him then, face conveying mortification and shame, as she shook her head at herself.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, working her way backwards off the bed. “I don’t know why I keep doing this. I’m so embarrassed...” She trailed off, looking around. “My shoes, fuck.” 

He got up then, too, and they gathered her scattered possessions – her, apologetic and miserable, him maddeningly silent, incapable of conjuring up the reassurance she needed.

With one last apology, she fled.

The next morning, he woke up to find his spare key slipped under the door. 

For the next eight days, Ben debated how he was going to return the key to her without saying something humiliating like “My bed is your bed” or “You’re welcome to sleep with me any time.” 

It didn’t help that she guiltily avoided him at all costs. At most, she’d smile at him when they crossed paths entering or exiting their apartments, but overall communication was stifled and limited. So, for the next eight days, he held onto his key. 

But he would leave his door unlocked at nights. 

On night nine, Ben awoke to the feeling of Rey – her shape, her smell (even through the alcohol), the way she moved and even breathed – sliding in beside him. He felt as though he knew her now, either from wakefulness or perhaps just his dreams. 

He lay quiet and still until she settled and her snores commenced. He covered her and lay back down, watching the even rise and fall of her back as she slept. Then, he closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, the tepid grey light of early dawn shone through the slats of his crooked blinds. 

The sheets beside him were rumpled. And empty. 

When they bumped into each other in the hall three days later, he said nothing about it and neither did she. They exchanged pleasantries, she offered him a donut that he refused, and they entered their separate homes. 

Four nights after that, he woke up with his arm around her. 

She had curled herself into his body, breathing deeply and steadily, the cadence of her snores indicating that she was already dreaming. She was fully clothed, as she always was, and smelled faintly of hops, as she frequently did, and he found himself aching in a peculiar way. A sharp-soft tenderness, centred deep in his chest, one that was nameless and unfamiliar, but still caused him to wrap his arms tighter around her and draw her even closer. 

Caused him to tilt his head just so and leave his lips pressed into her lily-fragrant hair. 

He didn't know why she drank every week. Didn't know if it was with friends or alone. If it was after work or after midnight. Didn't know why it would inevitably lead her to his home, his bed. 

All he knew was that, when she was there, she was his. 

And he would protect her at all costs, from whatever demons chased her into his arms.

The next morning, he awoke once more to empty arms and an empty bed.

When he caught her leaving her apartment for work that day – or, really, when he contrived a scenario to leave at the same time, having waited by his door for almost twenty minutes until he heard her door open – she jolted in surprise at his sudden appearance, then greeted him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. 

"Hullo there," she said, locking her door behind her. "Off to work?" She shifted her bag up her arm and over her shoulder, keys jangling nervously in her hands. 

"Er, yeah." He no longer worked, thanks to a decent settlement from his previous company, but that wasn't something they had ever discussed and it was easier to go along with it than explain. "You?"

"Yup," she replied, that same toothy, uncharacteristic grin that rang a little false. 

_You were in my bed again last night_ , he thought desperately, wanting to yell at her and shake her, to hold her and kiss her. _Do you even know?_ _Are you okay? Are you hiding something?_ His thoughts continued to ramble. _Do you know that I want you there? That it’s okay? That you should just stay?_

He didn't say a word of what he wanted to, though. Instead he regarded her, his gaze too intense, his silence too heavy. 

She shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard and looking away.

"I—" she began, then cut herself off. She looked up at him, eyes searching his. He kept his face intentionally blank. She cleared her throat. "Have a good day, Ben."

"You, too, Rey," he said as she walked away. 

The next two visits followed a similar pattern.

She would enter his apartment late – even though he tried to stay up, she would outlast him – and crawl into his bed with whatever she was wearing from her day—first it was jeans, then a dress with tights that tempted his sanity. 

He was attuned enough to her entrance now that he would awaken as soon as her knee hit the bed.

He stayed still and silent while she crawled up, carefully and somewhat quiet, the occasional belligerent grumble as she got settled.

Within seconds, she'd be sound asleep. 

Neither time did she seem entirely sober and he began to worry for the _other_ days – the ones where she might be drinking and _not_ coming home—to him. 

How did she get home those days? How often did she even do this? Was it always him that she went to? 

_Only_ him?

Or did she go elsewhere, too? Find other arms and beds to occupy? He found to his surprise that the answers didn't matter, aside from the overarching concern for her safety and protection. 

_Was she okay?_

It was the one question he kept coming back to, the only answer he needed. The nights she was in his bed, he took a disconsolate comfort in knowing that, at least for that brief time, he would make sure that the answer was _yes_.

So he held her. And stroked her hair. And allowed her to snuggle deeply into his body. He covered her and comforted her and he tried to stay awake for her, to catch her before she left, to tell her it was okay and that she could stay.

But each night, sleep would overtake him. 

And each morning, she would be gone. 

And if they ran into each other during the week in the hallway or the stairwell, he would act like they didn't spend one night a week in bed together, in a lover's embrace without being lovers, and she would do the same— 

He would behave himself, cordial and friendly and polite, as though he didn't know the way her face softened in sleep or the feel of her body in the early dawn or the way she favoured her left side and tucked an arm under his pillow and a hand against his chest— 

And they would say their goodbyes, move on and go about their days, leaving languishing trails of longing and all the words they didn't say shimmering in their wake. 

Which brought them to the present. 

It was visit number seven. Ben had been exhausted that night, a week’s worth of nights spent waiting to hear the door open catching up to him, that he had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow. 

Her presence had infiltrated his dreams at first, subconscious mind going to the faceless, buxom dream girls of his adolescence, before quickly shifting to the familiarity of more recent fantasies: of litheness and grace and a pillowy bottom resting in his hand. 

He relished the feel of her tucked into him so tightly, slotted in a way that felt perfect like nothing else ever had. But, as he slowly shifted awake, he knew that this transient habit, this temporary madness, couldn’t last forever. And his worry for her only grew each week. 

It was time to talk. 

“Rey,” he said gently into her hair. “Rey...” He gave in to temptation and kissed where his lips rested, pressing them in the fine locks. 

She stirred and groaned, burying her face into his shoulder. 

He rubbed her back, settled his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and gave a light squeeze. 

“Rey,” he said again. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?” She lifted her head, eyes still closed. 

“Wake up, come on.” He palpated his fingertips gently, massaging the base of her skull. 

Her eyes blinked open and he caught a flash of guilt in them, illuminated by the thin sliver of moonlight coming in through the blinds, before they widened in surprise and she gasped. 

“Ben!” she cried softly. “Oh, no, not again?” She went to move away but he held her still. 

“No,” he said calmly, “lie down. Stay. Let’s talk about this.”

She was already shaking her head. “I don’t understand, the key, I gave it back—“

He stopped her gently, a thumb resting over her lips as his other four fingers cupped her jaw. 

“The door‘s been unlocked at nights.” He paused, searching her eyes, before adding meaningfully: “As you know.”

Her body deflated, demeanour changing. She looked exhausted. And young.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Her tone turned accusatory. “Why don’t you lock it, dammit?” 

It was as good as a confession. 

“Why do you keep coming?” he countered. 

“It’s an accident,” she responded, too quickly. “Our doors are identical, I’m drunk—“

“I don’t buy it,” he interjected softly. 

She looked away, biting her lip. Her breath started to come out through her nose in quick, shallow gusts. He watched as she drew further into herself. Watched, in dawning horror, as her eyes welled with tears. 

“No,” he said quickly. “No, no...” His hand hovered in mid-air, wanting to touch her, unsure if it was allowed to without the guise of sleep for protection.

“You act like you know me,” she snapped, swiping at her face. “When no one actually does. Least of all you.” 

She was lashing out now, a wounded animal, manifesting that ferality he’d always sensed just below the surface. 

“I know...” _What_ did _he know?_ He would have to tread carefully or risk losing her for good. 

“I know you like to help,” he said finally. “To be useful. I know you’re organized, but not especially neat.”

He paused for a beat as she regarded him warily, but her silence bolstered him. 

“I know your heart. Its kindness, its capacity for love. I see it in the way you treat your friends,” he continued. “The way you treat...me.”

Her lips had parted, the tears threatening to spill over. 

“I...don’t know why you drink.” His voice was a low baritone in the silent room. “I don’t know why you...need this.” He gestured between them. “And I don’t know what demons you face.” 

His eyes searched hers, back and forth, that ache he always had for her feeling tender and raw and cracked wide open.

“But I know you, Rey. That’s why I keep the door unlocked. And why I‘ll keep it unlocked until you don’t need me to anymore.” 

She reacted to his words as though he had physically drawn the air from her lungs. Blinking rapidly, her chest heaved with the effort of maintaining her composure. As her breaths turned into gasps and her eyes dissolved into tears, his self control snapped. 

Swiftly, he drew her into his arms, cupping her head and guiding her towards him.

Her sobs sounded like they were wrenched from her soul – deep, crackling, and grief-stricken in a way that tormented him. 

Stroking her back, he shushed in her hair, brushing kisses along her ear. She pulled at his shirt, tried to crawl deeper into his lap, buried her face in his neck.

"I—I—" Choking on her words, she tried to speak through her tears as coughing sobs consumed her.

"Shh," he soothed, voice rough. "Whatever it is, I'm here. Whatever you need, I'm here." 

He held her close, rocked her tightly back and forth, hardly even aware of what he was doing. He just needed to feel her, to try and draw her pain from her body through even, repetitive strokes down her back.

Eventually, her tears subsided into the occasional sniffle. The tremors stopped and she was able to take in a proper breath. He huffed along with her, matching his breaths with hers, encouraging her to inhale and exhale deeply without using words. She caught on and followed his lead, in and out, deep and even. 

He stayed silent, like he had all the times before when he probably should have spoken. This time, however, the silence felt right. It didn't feel like it was full of things left unsaid.

It felt like patience, and something more.

His chest throbbed in tune with his heart. 

After a few more measured breaths timed with his own, she finally spoke.

"I got… bad news. A couple months ago. I—my past is… murky," she finally settled on a word. "I've been okay with that, for the most part. But recently I've been thinking of the future." 

She paused, her posture indicating that she might be feeling awkward, or uncomfortable. He loosened his grip on her slightly, giving her an out.

She settled more firmly into his lap.

Tonight she had worn a soft black sweater with leggings. She smelled like fresh laundry and soap. He inhaled and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her head, and he waited.

"The future… like—" She swallowed. "Like kids, maybe. One day." She paused again, lost in thought, and then shook her head. "Or whatever. So I decided to do one of those—those ancestry things." 

He nodded, painfully aware of the murkiness of ancestry.

"I found out—my…" Her lips trembled and she pressed them together tightly. "My lineage is not good. It's not something I'm proud of. And it's not something I'm keen to pass on. It was better to believe I was—nobody." 

She sighed shakily.

"Better to be nobody than to have my worst fears confirmed," she ended. "To know for sure that, instead of being—whoever I want, that I'm—I'm something wrong. Something—" Her voice cracked. "Ugly." 

He was already shaking his head, but he sensed she needed to finish, so he refrained from speaking.

"That first night—that I—" She reached out and lightly touched his pillow, lost in memory. "It was an honest mistake. Our keys are identical. Our doors. I was—so wasted." 

She shook her head, chagrined.

"And it felt…" Her voice trailed off as she looked wonderingly at him. "Even without you staying there with me, it just felt—" 

She took a deep breath, as though needing to compose herself, before continuing.

"It felt right.” She let out the breath shakily. “After that, there were no more mistakes," she admitted. "At first, I thought I could get over it. That I wouldn't need the feel of your bed, the warmth of you, the—the smell of you—"

Even in the moonlight, he could see her face redden at the admission. 

"I tried to hold out," she continued. "To be okay with—being alone. Then I thought, maybe if I drank again, it would just—happen." She laughed, mirthlessly. "Like I could drink myself into making the same mistake and the accountability would no longer be on me.

"But even drunk, I knew. I knew and I—I did it anyway," she ended in a mortified groan, head dropping to his shoulder. "And when you finally stopped leaving the bed and you—you stayed and you held me, I thought…" She shook her head. "It was like a drug. An honest-to-god drug." 

"Oh, Rey." His voice was choked with emotion, heart cracking with the weight of her admission. 

"Pathetic," she agreed, bitterly. "A grown woman. Drinking herself into a stupor and hoping her weekly home invasions would be excused, ignored, or forgotten. When we would see each other during the day and you wouldn't say anything, I thought I was getting away with something. That if I—I was leaving before you woke up and you were acting like you didn't even know, that maybe we could pretend it was just a—" She broke off, words catching in her throat. "That it would only be something that happened at night. In the morning, the spell would be broken.

"But obviously—" She lifted her head now, moved away from him. He let her go, though his hands lingered on her arms. "—Obviously it was not sustainable. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for interrupting your sleep, for breaking into your home, for bringing you into my absurd trauma—" 

"Don't apologize," he interrupted firmly. "Don't ever apologize. I wish I had known. I wish I had known from the first day. I would have—" He bit off a curse, shook his head. "Don't you see?" he said finally, gesturing around them both. "Don't you see, Rey?" 

"See—see what?" she asked, looking around and then up at him, wide-eyed. 

“It never mattered,” he said in a raw whisper. “The reason. It never mattered what it was or why. It was just about you—what you needed.” 

His voice dropped another octave. 

“It was only ever about you, Rey.” 

She let out a sob at his words and brought her hands up to his face, touching his cheek, stroking his hair. 

He leaned in to her touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, he was resolute. 

“You are not your past,” he said firmly. “And you are not your family. You are more than the blood that runs through your veins. Who you are is determined by who you want to be and who you ultimately become." The irony was not lost on him; saying the words that rang true for both of them. 

He brought his hand up, covering hers with his own.

"Your strength is in knowing that your power lies with you. And no one else." Bringing his other hand up, he turned her chin gently, forcing her to look at him. "Okay?" 

She nodded shakily, looking back and forth between his eyes. She was still teary, her nose red, but a small smile quavered on her lips and then she tucked her bottom lip under one perfect white tooth in a familiar way and— 

She tugged him towards her and kissed him. 

He was momentarily stunned, motionless. Then he came alive. 

Returning her kiss ardently, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, drawing her even closer until her body was flush with his. He felt her hands squeeze his cheeks and he tried unsuccessfully to control his smile. 

Her lips moved on his, head tilting just so, and her tongue came out to stroke at his. The feel of the velvety softness of her tongue sent an electric shock through him, a disbelief that this was real; it was happening. He met it with his own, arms tightening as his heart pounded an irregular beat in his chest. 

He wanted to kiss her harder, deeper until he drowned in her. It felt like coming home—more like home than anything else he’d ever experienced, any place he’d ever been.

She tasted fresh and sweet and somehow better than he had imagined she would. He was grateful that she didn’t appear to have come to him tipsy tonight, as there was no hint of spirits on her breath either. It was like she had known, as he had, that the arrangement had to change – somehow. 

Pulling away as she moaned softly, he shifted his head to kiss her cheek, his mouth brushing her ear on its way to her neck. He dragged his mouth further down to her shoulders and she tilted her head to give him better access.

 _This is a dream_. Instead of her being there, it was just another night where she didn’t come, another night where he had fallen asleep waiting. In reality, he was in his bed alone, the front door unlocked. 

Except… 

It felt real, didn’t it? Her ardour, her desire – _for him?_ – he could taste it on her tongue. Could feel it in the way her hands glided upwards to tug at his hair. The way his hands spanned her back and stroked, up and down, absorbing the heat of her. She arched into him as he kissed her shoulder, the loose collar of her shirt slipping down to reveal the bare pearlescent skin in the spare light of the moon. 

“Ben,” she whispered, her voice real and raspy in the quiet room as she slid her hands from his face down to his shoulders. “I’ve wanted this—” 

“Me, too,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, “ _God_ , me, too.” 

Their lips met again, like waves crashing onto the shore, the ebb and flow of their bodies in tandem with one another. She wound her arms around his neck and he wrapped one of his around her body, using the other to support them both as he slowly lowered her down. 

“Is this—?” He broke away briefly to ask, but the question was left hanging, because she had begun to nod the second he started speaking. 

“Yes, yes,” she said against his mouth. “C’mere.” 

Pulling him to her again, she kissed him like she was starved; like he was her sustenance and her salvation. He couldn’t help but sink into the softness of her body, his hardness slotting between her legs. She drew her feet up his calves, the pyjama pants he made sure to wear these days dragging upwards with the momentum of her curling toes. His body canted upwards helplessly, an intrinsic, ancient rhythm dictating his movements more than his modern brain was capable of impeding at the moment. 

Whatever was driving him, the same force propelled her as her body rose to meet his. Their lips glided together and parted, tilting and fitting together again and again. He couldn’t get enough of the taste of her, the feel of her. 

It finally felt like everything had slotted into formation. As though for the last year he had been painstakingly constructing a puzzle, piece by piece, and he had finally, _finally_ found the last one and was just—about—to fit it—into place—

His hands stroked down her sides and up again, tucking under her shirt to feel the silky, hot bare skin on her rib cage, waist and belly. She broke away from him to tug the soft material up and over her head and his breath caught dramatically at the sight of her, completely bare from the waist up. 

“Did you swallow your tongue?” she said, on a hiccuping laugh as his lips immediately went to her collarbone. 

“Yes,” he mumbled against her skin, moving to the other side and kissing downwards until one pert nipple was in his mouth. 

“Liar,” she gasped, as he licked and swirled around her breast, his other hand coming up to tweak the other side, before running his finger around the areola in light circles. 

“Fuck, Rey,” he growled, nuzzling at her nipple with his nose, kissing her ribs. “ _Fuck_.” 

“I want—” She moaned and gasped as his kisses delved lower. “I want—”

“Anything,” came his muffled voice. “Everything.” 

He hooked his fingers in her leggings before looking at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. 

He could see her throat working as she visibly swallowed before nodding at him. Tugging them down in increments, his own throat caught as he saw she had no undergarments on under her pants, either. He caught her eyes in surprise and she gave him a rueful half-smile. 

“I mean, I didn’t expect—” she began, haltingly, “—but even when I’m just sleeping, I usually—” 

She looked so sheepish and adorable that his heart seized a little bit; a sweet-sharp plunk of longing, despite the fact that she was right there in his arms. 

_I could love her_ , he thought, lying to himself—knowing he already did. 

He kissed her bare thigh and pulled the pants down the rest of the way until she lay nude before him. 

Gooseflesh had risen on her skin and she shivered slightly, though he wasn’t sure if it was from a chill in the room or just that she felt the way he did: restless, slightly shaken, maybe a bit nervous, too. 

“Condom?” she asked hesitatingly, her face falling when he shook his head. 

“I mean—yes,” he amended, “I do. But that’s not—I have...other ideas, for tonight,” he managed to get out, his throat almost closing on him as he spoke. 

He knew what he wanted and although it was _certainly_ to be inside her and feel her warmth envelop him as he moved within her, over her, under her, and any way she would have him, he had already decided to save _that_ , specifically, for another night. It was already late – or early, depending how one looked at it – the evening had started off emotionally for her, they were still navigating unfamiliar territory—no. He would make sure that right now it would be good for her and have that be enough, for both of them. 

He moved up her body, bracing himself above her, an arm on either side. She looked up at him, her hair fanning his pillow, face soft and eyes staring at him wonderingly. Her lips were parted slightly and somehow it felt like the moon had gotten brighter, bathing her entire form in an ethereal glow; a living angel, this goddess in his bed. She was so beautiful he was stunned into a frozen silence, just staring and worshipping and wondering how he’d gotten so damn lucky this one time in his miserable life to be here, in this moment, with this woman. 

“What?” she said, giggling nervously as the silence dragged on. 

_You’re perfect_ , he thought, _and you’re mine._

It was archaic, positively barbaric, and it was the only conscious thought he could form. 

_Mine_. From the minute she had first crawled into his bed. _Mine_. From the moment he had first seen her with the rim of a half-full coffee cup between her teeth and a stack of library books in her hands. _Mine, mine, mine—_

He leaned down and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, exploring her mouth with his, hungrily taking from her all she was willing to give. She responded in kind, her naked body rubbing against his fully clothed one, driving him insane with need and with longing. 

She grasped at the black t-shirt he wore, pulling at it like she meant to tear it and he almost laughed against her mouth, this half-savage girl of his. Pulling away from her, she loudly expressed her disapproval and this time he did laugh, whispering words like “patience” against her skin as his mouth trailed hot kisses down the centre of her body. 

When he reached the apex of her thighs, he looked up at her. 

She was watching him intently, her breath coming in sharp, unsteady gasps, nipples distended upwards from her chest, pointing sharply to the ceiling. Her rib cage stood out more than her breasts and he reached past it to play with them gently, roll them in his hands, barely fitting them into his palms. She writhed and whimpered beneath him, rolling her hips upwards slightly. 

Keeping his hands on her breasts, he lowered his mouth back down between her legs, kissing where her thighs touched and then going even deeper. 

Her legs dropped apart, seemingly of their own volition, as her hands fell on top of his and clenched his fingers. 

He buried his nose in the fragrant heat of her, feeling the sumptuous warmth of the most intimate part of her body. She gasped, hands tightening on his, as he mouthed at her softly, licking lightly, tasting. 

It was a unique experience, being with a woman in this way, and not one which he took lightly. 

Nothing could have prepared him, however, for the feel of Rey in his mouth – her very essence on his tongue – and the knowledge that he would never again be able to perform this act without it being her body, her taste, _her_. 

She had ruined him for other women, other experiences. There had been a time before and there was a time _now_ and, moving forward, only “now” would ever matter again. 

He massaged her breasts, then gently extracted his hands from the nails she had unwittingly dug into them, and brought them down to her hips, guiding her upwards and further into his mouth. 

He took immense pleasure in playing with her, teasing her, shying away from the place where he knew she wanted him the most and instead kissing and licking around the fine, silken folds; placing his tongue in and out of the grasping entrance of her buddy; nuzzling her clitoris with his nose before pulling away. 

She twisted and cursed him and let out the occasional sob and he lived for every breath and moan. When he moved his hand from her hip to insert one finger inside her, the liquid heat of her, the interminable wetness that surrounded him was almost his undoing. 

“ _Ben_ ,” she sobbed, rocking upwards, “ _please_.”

Unable to hold back any longer, he withdrew his finger – despite her whimpering protests – and instead put both his forefinger and middle finger together, circling her entrance once more, before thrusting shallowly inside. She tilted upwards and caught his fingers on an inward thrust, drawing him deeper into her body with a moan. He could feel the muscles contracting already, accommodating, as she took him in. He lowered his mouth again and caught her clitoris with his tongue, stroking rhythmically now, inside and out. 

“F-fu—” Her breath caught and released, then caught and released again, as her whole body tensed up. She reached down to card her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face and he looked up at her and caught her looking down at him, eyes glimmering and heavy lidded, face flushed, and lips swollen, and that was the exact moment her climax hit. 

He felt it before he saw it, his fingers clenched in her body, her wetness growing exponentially around his mouth and hand as her jerky movements halted, her body suspended in time. She cried out, once, an abbreviated shout, and tugged on his hair. The pleasure-pain of her nails scraping his scalp almost made him come, too, right on his cotton sheets. 

Instead, he focused on continuing to softly ply her with gentle movements of his tongue and fingers and he brought her down slowly, her whole body shaking with the aftereffects of her orgasm. 

“Shh,” he soothed, coming back up, gathering her against his chest, tucking her against him. 

“Oh-h, m-my—” she tried out of parched lips, eyelashes fluttering against her wet cheeks. 

He brushed the damp hair away from her forehead and kissed her gently on her hairline, stroking her back soothingly as she got her bearings. Throwing the covers over her, he rubbed her in a rough-gentle way, an attempt to get the blood flowing steadily through all her appendages. 

“Let’s sleep now,” he said in a low tone. 

“But, you—” she protested, even though her eyes were already closed. 

“Shh,” he said again, unable to resist pressing his lips to her forehead once more. “Me later. Me in the morning. Sleep now.” He kissed her one last time and then made to move away, leave the bed. 

She let out a short cry of protest, grasping at his arm. 

He shook his head laughingly, explaining: “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, slicking his hair back, and looked at himself in the mirror. The night had felt like a whirlwind of activity from all sides of the spectrum and he was exhausted, enervated, ready to collapse and simultaneously ready for another round. 

_Or a first round,_ he thought ruefully, regarding his painful erection with something like amused chagrin. 

He was considering just taking care of it himself as he cupped another handful of freezing water in his hands to splash on his face and perhaps elsewhere, when the door to the washroom creaked open slowly. 

Jumping, he whirled to see Rey standing there. She was naked still and seemed unselfconscious in her nudity, one hand on the door, a cocked hip and sleekly indented waist visible on the other side. 

“Uh…” he said, brain short circuiting, as she sidled in all the way, pressing her back against the door as she closed it with a decisive click. 

He hungrily took in the sight of her, illuminated by the yellow light in the bathroom, his first clear picture of her in all her unclothed glory. 

She was slim and athletic, yet still painfully feminine, with a waist that curved sharply inwards and then smoothly outwards to outline fuller hips and long sinuous legs. She reminded him of a doe; delicate and agile, with an unmistakable aura of imperial grace. 

“Hi,” she whispered, walking towards him. He swallowed as she brushed past him before stopping in front of him. His tented pyjama pants were millimetres from the soft, bare skin of her belly. She braced her hands on the counter and boosted herself up so that they were almost lined up perfectly for—

“What are you doing?” he asked, finding his voice. 

“It’s later,” she said, one hand playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “It’s morning.” He recognized the callback to the words he’d said to her just before he’d gone into the bathroom. He swallowed. 

Her fingers creeped to the waistband of his pants, gliding around to the front, brushing against his throbbing erection. His head canted slightly towards her, one wet strand of hair falling over his brow as his eyes dropped closed for an agonized beat. 

Gently, she eased the waistband away from his body. He let out a soft hiss as she had to make special exception for the space taken up by his swollen member, but in no time she had them over his hips and let gravity take care of the rest. Her hands were on him then, decisively stroking up and down, spreading the already-leaking precome around the head with her thumb. 

“F—” He bit off a curse as he leaned his fisted knuckles against the edge of the mirror, his other hand gripping her naked hip. 

She removed her hands and he was already so far gone he almost whimpered, when he heard a crinkling sound and looked up to see her deftly unwrapping a condom. One of _his_ condoms. _How—_?

“I found it in your drawer,” she said with a slightly abashed giggle as she tossed the wrapper into the garbage beside the sink. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his as he helplessly watched her take him in hand again. 

“We’ll save the ‘talk’ for another time,” she whispered against his mouth as she tenderly rolled the condom over his head, smoothing it down his shaft. 

It was one of the most intimate, most erotic moments of his life. The delicately efficient way she took care of it made his throat close up. He felt so thoroughly cared for in a way that he had never felt before. It quite simply took his breath away. 

He pressed a shaky kiss to her downturnt head and she looked up at him again, giving him a crooked smile, close enough that he could see the light smattering of freckles across her upturned nose, the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. He brought his hands up unsteadily, stroking her jaw with his thumbs, tangling his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. He kissed her then, reverently, hoping to convey the emotion he felt at that moment and could not yet express. When he pulled away and looked at her, the tip of her nose had reddened and he saw the slight sheen of tears in her eyes. 

_Ah_ , he thought relieved. She’d understood. 

Stretching his arm up and over his head, he grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it off, allowing it to drop to the floor with his pants. Then, gripping her hips, he yanked her closer until she was almost all the way off the edge of the sink. With a gasping laugh, she hooked her ankles behind his legs and her arms around his neck. 

Reaching down, he guided himself to her entrance. She scooted forward more, moving her hips a bit to assist. He stroked up and down, collecting her wetness, teasing her. She bit her lip on a quiet moan and shifted restlessly, causing him to tighten his hold on her leg. Notching himself into the sleek entrance of her body, he paused, half buried in her wet warmth, and dropped his forehead to her shoulder. She reached up to stroke the silken black locks of his hair, giving them both a moment to adjust.

After a few deep breaths, she rocked her hips forward, taking him in a bit more with each incremental, undulating movement, until finally, he was fully seated within her. They both released simultaneous breaths, sighing into each other’s skin. His fingers pressed deeply into the soft flesh of her bottom as he moved her on him, mimicking her momentum with his own rhythm.

She was light, her weight feeling like nothing even as almost the entirety of it rested in his palms, and her own movements were borne of an understanding between the two of them that went beyond the physical. 

It felt effortless, this moment. He had always abhorred the term “making love”, had always felt like it was a platitudinal euphemism for something that was so much messier, more raw than what was implied. 

But _this—_

The way her eyes, half closed, watched as he moved in and out between their bodies. The flush of her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. The damp tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead and her temples. That tooth, that lovely tooth, pressed into her lower lip, the first thing that had ever driven him wild. 

Yes, it was raw. Yes, it was imperfect. 

But if this wasn’t love, Ben didn’t know what was. 

With one powerful thrust, he pulled her tightly against him, almost rough in his ardour. But she met him easily, rising up, wrapping her legs around him just as tightly. She threw her head back, long neck arching as he watched, mesmerized, the flush on her neck and chest deepening. He could feel her muscles fluttering against him as she cried out, almost in surprise, and that soft, liquid tightening was his undoing. 

His climax thundered through him, rendering his vision incapacitated with white hot sparks of pleasure. He let out an extended groan through gritted teeth, pulling her into him as firmly as their bodies would allow, reveling in the feel of her arms and legs holding him just as securely. 

They stayed that way, fused together, for an indeterminate amount of time. Ben’s legs were shaking with the aftereffects of such a powerful climax. Rey’s body trembled lightly in his arms. 

Coming to his senses slowly, he stroked her back and her arms, up and down, before making sure she was seated back on the countertop and then carefully pulling out of her. She gasped lightly at the absence of his body from hers, her hands gripping his shoulders firmly. 

He disposed of the condom and then heaved out a deep, gusty sigh, feeling more tired and more satisfied than he could ever remember being. 

She went to hop off the counter and he hooked his hands under her thighs instead, bringing her to him again and surprising her by carrying her back to the bedroom. 

She laughed as he hoisted her up before depositing her on the bed and crawling in beside her. They immediately took familiar positions - him on his back, her on her stomach, one hand under his pillow, the other curled onto his chest. He softly stroked her arm, marveling at how far they had come in so short a time. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

He looked down in surprise, thinking she’d already been asleep. 

“Thank you for being here,” she whispered, “non-judgemental and available when I needed you. Thank you for...this. Just… thank you.”

He stared at her, moved—that _she_ would be thanking _him_ ; it rendered him virtually speechless. He shook his head, not rejecting her gratitude, but accepting it as an unworthy recipient. Then, leaning down, he kissed her. 

He kissed her for all her joys and her sorrows. 

For all the nights she’d been in his arms and more so for all the ones she hadn’t.

He kissed her for the obstacles she had conquered and the ones yet to come. 

And when she drew away, he smiled at her gently and she smiled back. 

And then they kissed again. 

For new beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/delia_pavorum) for fic updates, tweetfics, RTs of the things I like, complaints about the things I don't, and more spectacular nonsense. You can also find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/delia-pavorum).


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